


permets-tu?

by shae (5H4E)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Based on the idea that Murphy knew Finn was going to sacrifice himself, Gen, I'm not even subtle about F/M's literary inspirations and I never intend to be, M/M, This literally does not have an end because I could not work out where to go with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:57:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8598973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/5H4E/pseuds/shae
Summary: “I’m not letting anyone else die for me,” (John owes Finn a debt. He owes him his life, a thousand times over, probably. But who’s counting?)“Yeah? Well. Sorry, but I’m not letting you die.”Fuck the grounders. Fuck the commander. Fuck Mount Weather. Fuck the Ark. Fuck politics and war and blood. Fuck them. They aren’t having Finn.





	

“Murphy, go upstairs.”

He does not mean to be questioned. He speaks like it’s a command, for John to obey. He’s sad and scared and resolute, and John Murphy should know better by now than to challenge his betters, but he’s never been good at submission, and his eyes are full of tears and the world wobbles around him and he _knows_ – of course he knows – what Finn Collins means to do.

And, call John a cynic or a nihilist or _whatever_ , but he’s never believed in that martyrdom shit.

“No,” he says.

Finn falters, resolution fading into panic in his eyes. He’s played his hand. He can’t argue with John unless he wants to reveal his plan to the others, and they both know he isn’t willing to do that - that the others would never let him do it if they knew.

John owes Finn a debt, and he’s too much a coward to pay the blood price; offering himself up is not a survivor’s move, but like hell is he going to let Finn Collins hand himself over to the grounders.

“No,” he repeats, shaking his head, as if that settles things – as if that settles _anything_ – and _laughing_ “no, I’m not going,” and for a moment, Finn almost looks angry, with the same wild flash in his eyes as there was before the massacre, and John realises – perhaps a second too late – that he’s as afraid _of_ Finn as he is _for_ him.

Raven is staring at him, her fingers still gripping the gun in her hands tightly, like she’s just waiting for the opportunity to shoot him, and Bellamy’s grunting his name, trying to scold him, or placate him. Because they’re surrounded by grounders looking to kill one – or all – of them (John doubts they’re really all that picky), but _John_ is the problem.

“I'll take the lower level,” Finn’s saying, “Bellamy, Clarke, Raven - you three take the front gate. Murphy, _please_ ,” his voice is a whisper; despairing, desolate, fierce. Blinking, John has to look away, glowering. Finn’s anger, his desperation, is blinding. “I _need_ you to watch the rear. That's the plan. Alright?”

Time seems to slow, and John instinctively reaches for his gun, his knife, or _anything_. Bellamy’s turning to leave, gun in position, looking so natural over his shoulder that he might as well have been born with it. Finn, flustered, seems to shut down momentarily, before Raven is at his side, and his arms are around her instinctively and they’re whispering, and Clarke is loitering to one side, refusing to look at John when he glances at her.

Raven leaves, going out of her way to keep out of John’s, and Finn’s saying goodbye to Clarke, and she’s turning her back on him, refusing to say goodbye, and in the next second, John realises that he doesn’t know what to do.

He does not have a plan.

There’s a hole in the wall upstairs, where John escaped from Bellamy’s failed hanging, which he’s supposed to be covering. Doubtless, the dropship is surrounded by grounders, but Bellamy, Clarke and Raven are only covering the front gate, and more exposed entrance. John can only hope that they’ll draw most of the enemy fire, can only hope that the two of them can run fast enough into the thick of the forest to hide, can only hope that the grounders are the only danger to them out there, that Finn will be willing - in this moment of madness - to run.

Wildly, John thinks that maybe they’re all going to die trying to save this one boy.

Five of the 100 against an unknown number of grounders, but John’s faced worse odds, and he’s survived.

“Finn, don’t do this,” He begs, and Finn’s resolve crumbles. He looks away as he cries, as if John’s not seen him cry before. As if the two of them have not been here before, this very moment an echo of three days ago; both of them white-knuckled, John’s fists around Finn’s jacket, Finn’s fists around a loaded gun.  “ _Please_.”

John’s hand falls away from his gun, and reaches out for Finn’s jacket. An echo. Whatever fatalistic courage had possessed him earlier has now deserted Finn, for he leans into John’s touch like it’s an anchor.

“I’m not worth all this,”

(To John, Finn is the only one who is worth _anything_ , but John’s aimless and faithless and Finn is _not_ , so John’s loyalty means nothing.)

“I’m not letting anyone else _die_ for me,” Finn sounds breathless, as if the air has been punched from his lungs. John’s never known Finn to not play the hero, even if his ideas of heroism are slightly skewed in some tragic, self-destructive way that John does not want to think about. Maybe this time, John can be the brave one.

John owes Finn a debt. He owes him his life, a thousand times over, probably. But who’s counting?

“Yeah? Well. Sorry, but _I’m_ not letting you die.”

Fuck the grounders. Fuck the commander. Fuck Mount Weather. Fuck the Ark. Fuck politics and war and blood. They aren’t having him.

John spent _three_ days being the _only_ person left by Finn’s side, and an eternity in exile. He knows something of what it’s like to be utterly forsaken by his own people – if they ever were his own people to begin with.

(Finn’s arms had been the ones to catch Murphy as he was cut down from his own lynching, his hands the ones to untie the rope around his neck and pull the filthy, spit-soaked gag from his mouth. It was Finn who had lingered in the dark of the forest, and dropped a knife by Murphy’s bloodied knuckles as he was exiled from the delinquent’s camp. Finn had stood in front of a loaded gun that they both knew Bellamy was more than willing to fire to protect John for no apparent reason other than because Finn _wanted_ to.)

He spent three days with a Finn with shaking hands and tears in his eyes, gutted and hollowed out so there was nothing left of him, but Bellamy and Clarke couldn’t even find the time to fucking say goodbye.

 _Fuck_ them. This time, they aren’t having Finn.

“C’mon, man,” he’s gripping the back of Finn’s jacket tightly, “don’t do this.”

In between his non-goodbyes and John’s willing presence, in between the moment of peace and his self-sacrifice, Finn hesitates. He can’t afford to, time has run out for him

“It’s what I deserve!” Finn is crying, but John’s already dragging him, by his jacket, to the ladder to the upper level, and Finn comes willingly, if stiffly.

**Author's Note:**

> “Shae, did you write another introspective Finn/Murphy fic?”  
> “Sure did! Fuck you!”


End file.
